


(you're) looking just like my type

by AugustaByron



Series: pretty reckless, pretty wild [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (From Sex to Like-Liking), (kinda), Developing Relationship, From Sex to Love, Hate Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Mentions of suicide attempt, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9931256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaByron/pseuds/AugustaByron
Summary: So Kent has an excellent thing going on with Mashkov, and has for about, oh, three years now.Parse and Tater have hate sex, and then friend sex, and maybe feelings sex? Kent is confused.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I have somehow made this? 
> 
> Warnings: Rough sex, bondage, bad BDSM practice (they talk and there is explicit consent, but no safewords, which is not great), Kent Parson uses misogynistic and slut-shaming language about himself, probably objectification of a sex partner, some talk of Jack's OD as a suicide attempt, ableist language (again about Jack and general mental health). Please let me know if I have forgotten to warn for something or you feel I need to update the tags. 
> 
> Check, Please belongs to Ngozi Ukazu. 
> 
> Title from C'mon by Kesha.

So Kent has an excellent thing going on with Mashkov, and has for about, oh, three years now. Since the All Star game, and then they were both training in LA that summer. And tonight--

“Little brat,” Mashkov growls as he throws Kent onto the bed. He looms above Kent, crowding him down onto the bed, and it's fucking awesome. Mashkov goddamn picked him up with one hand earlier, how insane was that? “Why you rush Snowy?”

“You really want to talk about the game right now?” Kent rolls his hips, which basically means he's humping Mashkov's leg. Whatever, Kent's gotten off in worse ways, usually with more boring people.

Except Mashkov grips Kent by the back of the neck and fucking shakes him like a kitten, and hell. That is incredibly hot. Mashkov can keep fucking doing that all he wants, which Kent tries to indicate by letting himself moan like a slut.

“You an asshole,” Mashkov says, practically croons. His voice is dark and menacing, just how Kent likes it. There's a reason he spends roadies to Providence hatefucking a giant Russian, why Mashkov knows to come to his condo when the Falcs are in Vegas. They're both getting something out of this. It works.

“Yeah? What are you going to do about it?” Kent smirks up at Mashkov, since that always seems to get results. Sure enough, Kent finds himself stripped with hurricane force, shirt flying off, pants yanked from his body and flung to the floor. Where the hell did his boxers go?

“Talk too much,” Mashkov says. “Whine, whine, whine. Give you something else to do.”

And then Kent is on his hands and knees, and oh, yes. Mashkov works two fingers, wet with lube, into Kent.

“Oh fuck yeah,” Kent gasps into the pillow of Mashkov's guest room.

“Shut up,” Mashkov grunts, and adds another finger. Kent bites down on a yelp: that's a little faster than he normally goes, but fuck if it doesn't feel amazing. The stretch and the burn settle into Kent's belly, and he gasps down air, working hard just to take it.

Mashkov fingers Kent open roughly, the way that Kent would never let him if it weren't a rest day tomorrow, just optional skate. He adds more lube as he goes, until the wet noises of it and Kent's stuttering breaths are the only sounds in the room.

“Better,” Mashkov croons, mockingly. Kent can hear the telltale crinkle of a condom wrapper, and after a second Mashkov is pushing into him, firm and deliberate. “You like?”

Kent can only manage a strangled sound, torn from his throat. Fuck, Mashkov's dick is enormous. Kent doesn't usually get down like this, he's more of a handjob in the bathroom of the club kind of guy, but he isn't the sort to waste a God given gift like Mashkov's giant porn cock.

“I know you like,” Mashkov says, and Kent can hear his smirk. That can't be allowed.

“I'd like it more if you'd put your back into it,” Kent grits out, and then it's all over: Mashkov's powerful thighs slapping against Kent's, fingers a bruising pressure around Kent's hips, the relentless pounding against Kent's prostate.

He hangs on for as long as he can, boiling over, before he tries to get a hand on himself.

“No,” Mashkov snarls, and knocks Kent's hand away. Kent falls, swearing, onto his shoulders, hands curled uselessly into the sheets. “Take it. Like this.”

Kent's dick is rubbing against the sheets, just wet enough with dripped lube and sweat to keep from chafing to the point of pain. He comes like that, practically sobbing with the force of it, with Mashkov still moving heavy and deep into him.

“Fuck,” Mashkov pants, and somehow bends Kent even further, so his face is completely mashed into the mattress and his ass is up in the air, thighs burning with the strain of keeping himself in place. He fucks Kent like that, once, twice, and comes.

Mashkov collapses onto Kent's back, and the weight of him feels fantastic, like being smothered but in a good way. Kent likes this little habit of Mashkov's almost as much as he likes the way Mashkov holds his hair when he fucks Kent's mouth, or pins his wrists to the wall when he kisses angrily across Kent's neck. It's all awesome, okay?

“Bro,” Kent says, when oxygen becomes an issue. “Get off of me, you're damaging the goods here.”

Mashkov grunts at him. He always goes nonverbal after sex, which is pretty awesome. It makes Kent feel like he really did something right.

Mashkov eventually gets off of Kent and takes care of the condom, lobbing it into the garbage. He settles back onto the bed and closes his eyes, ignores Kent solidly.

Kent rolls onto his back and stretches. His muscles are twinging pleasantly, his hipbones ache where Mashkov was holding him earlier, and there's the bone-deep satisfaction that only comes from getting fucked hard.

“Nice one,” Kent says. He lets himself look at the sweaty line of Mashkov's back, the bulge of his muscles. Damn. Nice.

“Yes. You know where door is,” Mashkov says, and Kent grins.

“Yeah, yeah, give a guy a second to put some pants on, why don't ya.”

It's an excellent arrangement.

 

Zimms apparently knows right how to go for the juglar, still, the way he did when he was sixteen and strung out on pills, mean with it.

“Parson's a great player,” Jack says to the postgame media, face fixed. Kent is rewatching the video for the third time, back at his apartment, whatever. “Not my style of hockey, but definitely talented.”

Not Zimms' style of hockey. Like Kent didn't fucking _define_ Jack's hockey.

That, plus three really nasty checks from some AHL call-up trying to win his way to the big show, and Kent's ready to drink a few beers and call it a night. His entire body always aches at this point in the season, but tonight's a real doozy.

He's thinking about getting some ice for his ribs, or at least making Kit shift off of his collection of bruises, when there's a knock on the door. Kent groans. It's probably Jeff with the baby, since driving around tends to knock her out when she won't sleep, and Kent's apartment is apparently a good distance away for naps.

The knock comes again, a little harder. “Fuck, I'm coming,” Kent calls. He nudges the cat off his lap and staggers over to let Jeff in.

It's not Jeff. Kent blinks at Mashkov, who's standing outside his door, fist still raised like he's going to knock again.

“Oh,” Kent says, stupidly. Of course. He and Mashkov have been doing this for years. It's just that Kent feels like shit, and so he basically forgot. The power of Jack Zimmermann, ladies and gentlemen. “How'd you get up here?”

“Doorman recognize me,” Mashkov says, and duh. Of course Bill knows who Mashkov is. He probably thinks that Kent and Mashkov are good buddies, since they always hang out when Mashkov's in town. Or Bill knows that Kent's a giant queer and is just, like, really discreet about it. “Can come in?”

“Yeah, sure,” Kent says, and steps aside to let all eight thousand feet of Mashkov into his apartment.

Once he's inside, Mashkov just looks at Kent, dark and intent. “Too tired, Parson?” It sounds like a dare, and, well.

“Bring it,” Kent says, and finds himself pinned against the wall, Mashkov's catcher's mitt of a hand already inside his sweats.

It's kind of hard to get it up when his entire back is aching, though, even when Kent grits his teeth and thinks about how fucking good this is going to feel in a second. After a minute of stroking his cock and whispering dirty in Kent's ear, Mashkov raises his eyebrows and takes his hand out of Kent's pants, which is a damn shame.

“Couple of hard checks,” Kent says, fighting the blush he can feel rising on his cheeks. “Gimme a second.”

But Mashkov is pulling away, frowning. “Hurt?” he asks, like he wasn't cheering on the bench when Kent lost the puck.

“Nothing I can't handle,” Kent says. Mashkov's frown deepens, and he grabs Kent by the shoulder, steers him away from the wall. “Hey, wait a second, I can still fuck!”

“Yes,” Mashkov says, pushing at him a little until Kent gets with the program and starts towards the bedroom. “Only not against wall.”

Kent goes with it, because Mashkov's plans are normally pretty solid. They have done some stuff that Kent would normally not think about, like the time they fucked on a balcony, and that turned out to be awesome.

Except.

Tonight, Mashkov peels Kent's clothes off slowly, and runs his hands down Kent's body, also slowly. And softly. He skirts around the bruises with those giant fingers of his, and hisses sympathetically when Kent flinches.

“Okay,” Mashkov says, a little quiet, and doesn't throw Kent onto the bed. Instead, he eases Kent down onto the sheets and arranges him there, rubs his stubbly jaw carefully over Kent's neck. The bite he places underneath Kent's ear is nowhere near hard enough to bruise. Then Mashkov takes off his own clothes, pinning Kent in place on the bed with a look.

Kent is starting to get a little wigged out, here. His boner is also making an appearance at long fucking last.

“Tell me if hurts,” Mashkov says. Kent nods. He's not sure if he could talk, even if he tried. Mashkov smiles down at him, and it's, okay, yeah, still pretty dirty. But it's without the sharp edge that Kent's used to.

It's slow, and different, and Kent feels like he's moving out of time. Mashkov grabs lube and a condom from the bedside table, and hitches one of Kent's legs up to give himself room to work. Kent leaves his ankle up on Mashkov's shoulder and tries to slow his heart rate down.

“Shhh,” Mashkov croons, which, hello. Kent is definitely not saying anything. Except, oh, okay. Those loud hitching breaths are him. Kent gulps down air and squeezes his eyes shut. It's a lot. Mashkov over him and above him, trailing one hand down Kent's stomach to rest on his unbruised hip. That single touch is shaking Kent up worse than anything they did last time, the times before that.

Mashkov opens Kent up slow and steady, with a lot of lube, and then asks, “Ready?” before he pushes in. He even waits for Kent to nod frantically before he does it.

And then he fucks Kent really _nice_ , with deep rolling thrusts, generous with his hand around Kent's cock where he'd normally be telling Kent that he'd better just take it like a slut.

Kent comes all over himself and Mashkov's hand, and he shudders through Mashkov's last few thrusts, overstimulated in the best fucking way.

“Good?” Mashkov asks when he pulls out. “Ribs okay?”

“My ribs are fucking fantastic, dude,” Kent says, mopping himself off with some tissues while Mashkov takes care of the condom. His entire body is tingly. He cannot remember the last time he felt this good.

Mashkov hums in agreement and then—slings his arm around Kent's chest, settles in next to him on the bed. His body is a hot line down Kent's side, the bulk of him sheltering. There's something comforting in the smell of sweat here, and Kent breathes it in before it occurs to him that, okay, this is off brand.

“Whatcha doing, pal?” Kent asks, trying to sound normal.

“Sleep,” Mashkov says. His eyes are already closed. “Flight leaves in morning. Got permission from coach.”

There's something fishy here. Kent knows this. He's not an idiot, despite his team's opinion to the contrary.

But.

He's tired, his ribs hurt, and it feels like all his muscles just got pulled out through his dick. Sleep sounds pretty fucking good right now.

“You better not snore,” Kent says. Mashkov lets out an enormous one and then snickers, still pretending to sleep. “You're such a dork.”

“Takes one to know one,” Mashkov immediately counters.

Kent's just thinking that it figures Mashkov knows a seventh grade chirp in complete, smooth English, when sleep takes him.

 

Mashkov whispers, “Parson?” when the morning light is just beginning to break across Kent's windows. “Gotta go. Parse?”

Kent is so not awake, but he manages to peel his eyelids open a little, pick his head up a few inches. Mashkov is dressed, leaning over Kent's side of the bed with a frown on his face. It's kind of weird, Kent thinks, how Mashkov can have this reputation as a goofy guy, a prankster, a nice dude, and growl and grimace so much when Kent's involved.

“Wha?” he asks, still groggy.

“Plane leaving soon,” Mashkov says. “Have to go.”

And he woke Kent up for this? “Cool. Safe flight, dude.” He lets his head fall back onto the pillow.

Mashkov chuckles, and if Kent were more awake it would be startling. He's heard Mashkov laugh before, but not--

“Sleepyhead,” Mashkov says, and what? Kent is definitely waking up now. There's some kind of body snatchers situation happening.

Especially when Mashkov leans down more and presses a kiss to Kent's cheek, quick and light, a scrape of early-morning stubble. Kent is frozen in shock, stays that way until he hears the front door of his apartment close. Mashkov's gone.

Okay. What the fuck was that?

 

Kent is not thinking about it, okay? The Aces play the Falcs a couple of times a year, and there's the traditional summer hookups, but he has better things to do than worry about some unusual sex. And a weird morning after.

Maybe Mashkov is just one of those guys who's different before coffee. Affectionate. That's probably it.

But anyway, Kent's A is a fucking mess because his baby won't sleep through the night, and so Kent is doing even more captain shit than usual. He has rookies to wrangle, interviews to give, hockey to fucking play. He has no time to obsess about Alexei Mashkov.

And then it's All Star weekend, and Kent's got nothing but time. He should have faked a lower body injury when he had the chance.

The game is in Seattle this year, which is annoying for about ten thousand reasons. It's fucking cold, for one, and gloomy with constant rain, for another. Kent's sister read this book about how all serial killers are from Seattle and then told Kent about it in gleeful, gory detail right before he got on the plane this morning, so there's also that.

Plus Kent hates the Schooners. Like, on principle.

It is this hatred that is leading Kent to have a few drinks the night before the skills competition, comfortably yelling about how much Seattle sucks with his boy Nicky, who got traded away from the Aces last season.

“It rains too fucking much,” Nicky says, and then, “Oh, hey, Mash. What's up?”

Kent doesn't bother to turn around. Of course. Mashkov slides into their both with a glass full of something clear, and says, “Schooners putting hit on you.”

“Let them fucking try,” Nicky growls. He does an respectable job of getting to his feet, and storms across the bar yelling, “Looney, you and your piece of shit mustache better come say that to my face!”

Just like that, Kent is alone with Mashkov. He's not exactly sure what to do in this situation. They don't hang out alone in public. He gulps some of his beer and specifically doesn't bring up the time Mashkov spooned him all night and kissed his cheek in the morning.

“Roommate from Seattle,” Mashkov says. His tone is casual, but he's quiet, eyes darting around quickly before he continues, “Stay with family tonight.”

Kent's heart starts beating a little faster. He takes another sip of his beer. “So you're alone?”

“Maybe,” Mashkov says, with that slow smile of his, the one that makes Kent flush under his collar.

“Or maybe not,” Kent agrees. He throws a fifty on the table to cover his beers. “Want to go?”

“Thought you never ask, Kent Parson,” Mashkov says, and well.

It probably wasn't weird last time, anyway.

 

“Want try something,” Mashkov pants into Kent's mouth. They're making out in Mashkov's hotel room, sprawled over his bed with most of their clothes still on.

“Cool. What?” Mashkov's ideas are usually pretty solid. Kent's never had a bad time.

“Tie you up,” Mashkov says. His hands are around Kent's wrists, have been for a little while. How did Kent not notice that? Now Mashkov tightens his grip, just a bit, just enough to make Kent aware of Mashkov's size and shiver with it, with the possibilities. “Just a little.”

“Uh.” Kent licks his lips. He's never-- “Bring it, dude.”

Mashkov smiles down at him, a little dirty. “Get naked. Be right back.” And with that, he's off the bed, rummaging through his suitcase. Kent dutifully strips off his boxers and tries to arrange himself appealingly on the bed. It feels stupid trying to look sexy for Mashkov, but he can't help flexing a little, posing.

Except when Mashkov comes back, his eyes slip right over Kent's abs, pecs, and go to Kent's face. Kent raises an eyebrow, and Mashkov smirks at him. It should look goofy, Kent thinks, panicking. But it doesn't.

Mashkov is quiet while he ties Kent's wrists to the fucking headboard, using some kind of soft rope that he must have brought with him. What, did he check a bag or something? That must have been weird going through security. When he's finished he just sits back on his heels and looks at Kent, eyes dark and hot.

“Hey, dude, chill with the staring,” Kent says, finally. His skin is tingling. It's nice. Kind of. It's mostly weird. He feels unmoored, despite the rope, like he could float up and fly away at any time.

“Hush,” Mashkov says. He trails his fingers down Kent's stomach, gentle, almost ticklish. Kent twitches away from them, but finds there's not really anywhere to go. He's pinned, and it's--

He wishes that Mashkov would just grab onto him, fuck him already, leave some bruises or something. Kent needs a roadmap, here, of what the fuck they're doing exactly.

Instead, though, Mashkov rubs at Kent's hip with one rough hand and croons again, “Hush,” and Kent--

Feels something inside of himself snap and settle. Kent lets himself relax into the bed, and Mashkov hums at him, pleased.

“So good for me,” Mashkov says. He hauls one of Kent's legs up and hooks it around his waist. “Make you feel so good.”

And that's a little—Kent rolls his hips as much as he can, trying to get them back on track. Mashkov just reaches up with one long arm and tweaks Kent's nipple.

“Can you?” Kent gasps, way too breathless for this early in the game. Shit, maybe he should have been getting tied up all this time, from the way his heart is racing, the way all his blood seems to have abandoned his brain and headed south. “Just--”

“Trust me,” Mashkov says, fingers dipping into Kent's hole, already wet with lube. He strokes Kent there, soft, just a little pressure, and Kent feels himself opening up to let Mashkov in. So sue him, there's only so many times he can fuck the same dude without starting to trust him. It's muscle memory.

Mashkov is slow about it, and his eyes stay intent on Kent's face the whole time. So Kent does his best to look sexy, to keep breathing. It feels so fucking good, the careful stretch of it, the soothing pressure of Mashkov's other hand on his hip.

“Fuck, Kent,” Mashkov says, and leans up to kiss the side of Kent's neck. “So pretty. So good.”

It's—new. Especially when Mashkov finally eases into Kent for real, carefully, not the hard frantic push that it normally is.

“Tell me,” Mashkov pants, working in and out like a fucking metronome, unshakeable even when Kent tries to buck and clench, get him to hurry up.

“Come on, man,” Kent breathes. He's being cracked open, here, wrists pinned above his head, not able to reach down and jerk himself off. Fuck, his dick is almost an afterthought at this point. But Mashkov's face isn't, dark eyes shining, dark hair sweaty and flopping down over his forehead. It's too slow, too much. Kent hasn't ever had sex like this.

If it weren't for the ropes biting into Kent's wrists, he would call this tender.

“Ask nice.” But it's not nasty, when Mashkov says it, breathes it against Kent's neck, the way it's been before with other dudes, guys in clubs who tried to shove Kent down onto his knees. It's—like he really wants Kent to ask.

Never let it be said that Kent's not good at getting what he wants. He arches, pouts, says, “Please.”

Mashkov says something in Russian, probably something filthy judging by the rest of his vocabulary, and then he's kissing Kent. Savage, open-mouthed kisses, at sharp contrast to the continued glacial pace of his thrusts.

They break apart after a minute, a few hours, whatever, and Kent gasps, “Come on, please, do it, I want you to do it,” until Mashkov swears again and finally, finally speeds up. His massive hand comes down to jerk Kent, tight and fast the way he likes it, and he comes like that, a supernova exploding behind his eyes. Mashkov follows along a second later, and then Kent is being squashed, covered by Mashkov's bulk.

It's cool. Kent closes his eyes and relaxes, feels the open feeling in his chest slowly close back up until he feels normal again.

He's not sure how long it takes, but for once, Mashkov is the first to stir. “Shit, sorry.” Kent can hear him dealing with the condom, and then there are big warm hands on his wrists, untying him. Mashkov rubs at Kent's wrists, and Kent opens his eyes.

Mashkov isn't looking at his face. He's looking at Kent's wrists as he rubs them.

“Sorry, Parse,” Mashkov says, hangdog. “Didn't mean to hurt.”

Hurt? Kent's feeling pretty fucking good over here. He looks at his wrists and they're a little red, sure, but it's okay. Kent's a hockey player.

“Hey, it's cool,” Kent says. He should probably sit up. He'll get right on that. “That was stellar, Mashkov, good idea.”

“Maybe you call Tater,” Mashkov suggests, still rubbing Kent's wrist. “Or Alexei.” Kent would never have believed that this giant dude could be so gentle until, like, half an hour ago.

“Tater,” Kent agrees. No big deal. “It's cool. Seriously.”

Mashkov frowns at him, but brings Kent's wrist to his mouth and—fuck. Kisses the red mark. Kent's brain stops functioning again. That's—not hatefucking, not even friends with bennies.

“Okay,” Mashkov agrees. “You want first shower?”

“Why don't you come join me,” Kent suggests, ignoring the way his stupid heart starts beating faster at the suggestion. It's nothing. It's all good. This isn't like the Q, Mashkov isn't some headcase who's going to take a bottle of pills while Kent is in the shower.

Mashkov grins at him, big and goofy like he always looks in interviews and stuff. He follows Kent into the bathroom, and isn't clingy, exactly. He's just there, standing close in the stall, passing Kent the little hotel bottle of shampoo and groping Kent's ass.

“Fuck, Mashkov, give me a sec to recover,” Kent says, when that hand on his ass slides around to his dick, which, hello, is still out for the count.

“Alexei,” Mashkov says, and puts that hand into Kent's hair instead. He leans down and kisses Kent, and Kent kisses back. He'd forgotten how much he likes kissing.

“Alexei,” Kent agrees.

 

They eat a quiet room service breakfast in the morning. Alexei devours like five waffles, which Kent probably would have predicted if anyone asked. He seems like a waffle guy.

“Not as good as ones Zimmboni's girl makes,” Alexei says, like Jack is something they've got in fucking common. And like Jack has a girlfriend. Yeah fucking right. If Jack's not dating that guy with the mustache and the flow who Kent met at Samwell, Kent will keel over in shock.

“Feel okay?” Alexei asks after a minute.

So this is what it's come to. Alexei now feels compelled to check that Kent's ass doesn't hurt after they fuck.

“Right as rain, dude,” Kent says, and shoves another bite of his omelette into his mouth to avoid any further conversation.

 

So that's that. Kent goes back to Vegas. It's cool. It's different, sure, but nothing is fundamentally changed. Alexei is a guy he fucks, and it's a little different than before. But it's totally fine. Sure, Kent hasn't really made out with someone whose name he knew since he was like, seventeen, but whatever.

And one night when Kent's stalking Alexei's Twitter, checking to see if there's any mention of Alexei's summer training plans, and he totally fucking snaps. That's the only explanation for why he gets in his car and drives to his A's house.

Jeff answers the door wild-eyed, with his hair sticking up like he's been electrocuted, and promptly thrusts Joanna at Kent. “Good, you take her. Make her stop.”

Joanna's bright red and howling, and she quiets slowly in Kent's arms. He paces around Jeff's house and bounces her gently, shushes her. Jeff disappears as soon as Kent steps inside, but he turns up twenty minutes later. He's still a little damp from the shower, but at least he doesn't smell like baby shit anymore.

“What's up, Parser?” Jeff asks, finally sitting his ass down on the couch. He groans theatrically. “God, when are you moving in, exactly? This is the longest she's been quiet since Becca went to visit her sister. She's got two teeth coming in, it's the worst.”

“Not even if you paid me, three years of rooming with you on roadies was enough,” Kent says. His goddaughter is snuffling her way to sleep, and he eases gingerly onto the recliner, trying to give his arms a rest. “So, you know how I've been hatefucking Alexei Mashkov for a few years?”

Jeff freezes, then rubs a hand over his face. “Of course,” he mutters, deeply weary. “Now we're talking about this. Okay, Parse, so you need to talk about your deepseated sexual issues. I have the number of a very good therapist I've been saving for just such an occasion.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kent says. Joanna blinks slowly up at him, and he wrinkles his nose at her, trying to make her giggle. “It's just that it's been super weird the last couple of times? He's been all 'oh, stay for breakfast' and 'do you want me to add another finger before I stick my dick in you,' and it's freaking me out, okay?”

“He didn't used to check that you wanted his dick in your ass?” Jeff demands, purpling in outrage.

“No, dude, that's not what I'm getting at. I mean, he kissed me last time.” Kent waits for Jeff to understand, but only gets a blank look in response. “We don't kiss. We'd never kissed before.”

Jeff opens his mouth, closes it. Then he asks, gentle, “Parse, is this a Zimmermann thing?”

Not all of Kent's issues come from that time his boyfriend tried to kill himself while Kent was in the bathroom showering their combined jizz off his body. He would like to be clear about that. But--

“Maybe?” Kent buries his face in Joanna's thin hair and breathes in the smell of her, shampoo and that weird baby-scent, something clean and good. “He wants me to call him Alexei.”

“Oh, boy,” Jeff sighs. “Kent. You should probably nut up and talk to him.”

“It's nobody's business what happened with Jack.” Kent's never told anybody the details, not even his mom. No matter what went down with him and Jack later, that shit is private.

“You don't have to go into the specifics, but maybe tell him that you have the emotional IQ of a potato.” Jeff is quiet for a second before he adds, “You could probably date him if you want to, Parser. I've heard good things.”

“I don't want to date him.” Kent doesn't date.

“Then tell him that you two need to stop doing the horizontal tango,” Jeff says, flat.

Kent doesn't want to stop. “But it's really good sex.”

“If it freaks you out that bad to kiss him, you should probably stop.” Jeff shrugs. “Them's the breaks, bro.”

Shit. Kent was afraid of that.

 

They only play the Falconers one more time this season, so Kent should probably get his shit together before then. Maybe write down what he wants to say. He definitely shouldn't have sex with Alexei. That's goal number one, other than kicking the Falconers all over the ice.

Which the Aces do. Kent plays great, doesn't even look at Jack the entire time. Not Jack's style of hockey because Jack's hockey fucking _sucks_ , judging from the way he can't seem to get it together tonight. It all means that Kent is feeding Jeff passes all night, sets him up for two goals for Joanna's first birthday.

“Nice one, papa,” Kent says after, nudging Jeff, who beams back at him. Joanna's even at the game with Becca, and they surprise Jeff in front of the media, Joanna all decked out in an Aces onesie, Jeff's number on the back.

“Hey, beautiful,” Kent says when it's his turn to steal the baby. He kisses her nose, she laughs, and the media all coo. Becca takes a picture. “Did you know you're giant now?”

Joanna bites him with her three teeth and babbles, excited.

“We should probably get her home,” Becca says. “She's going to crash in like ten minutes, she took a late nap to be able to stay up this long.”

“Can't believe you messed with the nap schedule,” Kent says. “Suckers. Don't call me when she won't be quiet later.”

“Tell Uncle Parse to shut up,” Jeff says, and takes his kid back. The media leave Kent alone pretty soon after that, and he gets to escape before he gets too hungry.

Alexei is waiting in the tunnel, smiling down at his phone. Kent freezes. He forgot. He can't believe he fucking forgot. He's only been rehearsing for this for a week.

“Hey,” he says before he can chicken out and duck back into the locker room. Alexei looks up, grins.

“Saw picture with baby,” Alexei says. He shows Kent—looks like Aces PR already retweeted Becca's pic. “Photo op for dating site, yes? Look, famous athlete loves babies.”

“Yuk it up, Joanna's the best,” Kent says, blushing. He had some stuff he was going to say. He practiced. But it's all flying out of his head now, faced with the reality of Alexei in front of him.

Kent wants to kiss him again. There's no getting around that. He's got to nip this shit in the bud.

“Do you want to head to a bar or something?” Kent asks. It might be easier to talk in public. Nobody in Vegas gives a shit about hockey, so it's not like they would have to worry about being overheard.

“I come over,” Alexei says. “Cat likes me. Don't want to disappoint a lady.”

“Like hell does Kit like you,” Kent scoffs, but when they get to Kent's apartment Kit rubs all up on Alexei's legs, the filthy traitor. When the hell did those two become friends?

“Pretty,” Alexei croons, reaching down to scratch her behind the ear. Kit arches into the petting. Kent usually identifies pretty hard with his cat, but this moment is still more than usual. “Gorgeous, such nice green eyes.”

“You here for me or the cat, man?” Kent asks, and finds himself smiling back when Alexei answers with a grin. He swallows hard. “You want food?”

“Yes,” Alexei says immediately, and Kent laughs. He's got a few frozen dinners, chicken and rice with vegetables, stashed in his freezer. He tosses two of them into the oven and grabs a couple of beers from the fridge.

Kent's got a plan. He can get back to the plan. He'll tell Alexei they can't fuck anymore, and then Alexei will either leave, or they'll eat and then Alexei will leave. It'll be cool.

“So are you training with Rogers again this summer?” That's where he and Alexei really started their thing, in L.A. Rogers is possibly a sadist, but Kent has won trophies after every summer he trains with him. Alexei and a couple of other guys from the league usually are there, too.

“Think so,” Alexei says. “Go home for little bit, you know, then go to L.A. Are you?”

“Yeah.” Although maybe not, if this whole crush or whatever isn't out of Kent's system by then. Not like there aren't other trainers. Kent takes a deep breath and just says it. “Listen, I don't think we should fuck anymore.”

“What?” Alexei straightens up, ignores the way Kit flops onto his feet. His eyes are wide. “Did I—last time? Hurt?”

“No, dude, it's not like that.” Alexei's never hurt Kent other than the way Kent likes. “I just don't think it's a good idea anymore. It's starting to get complicated.”

“Complicated?” Alexei's eyes are really big. Dark. Kent's never really had a thing for dark eyes, but he's starting to see the appeal.

This is the hard part. Kent was hoping he wouldn't have to go into this. He blows out a sigh and tries to explain. “Okay, so, it's like we had a good thing, right? We fucked, and then we wouldn't talk, but then you started, like kissing me, and doing me slow and everything, and there's just a lot more feelings than I expected. I don't really do romance, you know? I haven't really dated in a while.”

Alexei frowns thoughtfully. “So I kiss you during sex, don't always shove you around, is romance?”

“Kind of?” Kent shrugs. “I don't know, man. It's just more than I usually do. And I'm--” Kind of a needy bitch, when you get down to it. “Not good at separating sex and feelings once there's more friendly stuff involved.”

Alexei is quiet for a minute. Then, “Is fucked up, Parse.”

Kent laughs. “Tell me about it. But I think we should stop fucking. Like I said.”

Alexei's frown deepens. “No.”

Um. “What do you mean, no?” To be completely fair, Kent's never actually broken up with someone before. Getting taken off the approved call list at rehab doesn't really count. But he's pretty sure people can't just opt out.

“No, don't want to stop,” Alexei says. “You have trouble? Then maybe we try your way. Sex, feelings, friends. More effort than not elbowing you in bruise, handing you washcloth. Is sad that all it takes. I am sad for you. Great Kent Parson, girl from love movie.”

“Shut the fuck up, I am not,” Kent says. He can feel himself starting to smile.

“Like Mila Kunis,” Alexei says, solemn, eyes twinkling. “Big problem: doesn't _believe_ in love. Makes me Justin Timberlake. Is okay, very handsome like movie star, can see how you would get confused.”

“Shut up,” Kent says again, and this time he knows he's fucking smiling. His dimples are probably out, fuck. That's usually embarrassing.

“No,” Alexei says. He steps closer, puts his hand on Kent's shoulder. “You funny, have nice cat. Like kids. Have great ass. Skate so pretty it makes me cry. Maybe we try?”

“Maybe,” Kent says. “I'm kind of—a fucking mess, okay? I haven't dated anyone since I was a kid.”

“Is okay, Mila Kunis,” Alexei murmurs. He bends down and kisses Kent, once, lightly. Kent's head spins. “I show you. Better at hockey, better at dating, am just the best. You get lucky.”

“I'll fucking show you lucky,” Kent says, and drags Alexei down for another kiss.

It's fucking excellent.

 


End file.
